Ignota Consilium
by CausticCaz
Summary: A sequel to Novum Consilium. In the aftermath of their separate run-ins with Tobias Budge, the two men take care of each other and Will considers the recent changes in their relationship. Second part of the Consiliorum series. Thank you to everyone who commented, followed and favourited my last story - I hope this one is enjoyed too. Comments/follows/favs would be delicious...
1. Chapter 1

The situation would have been comical had it not been for the circumstances, the pool of blood in his line of vision taking away the farcical edge. Along with the knowledge of his own part in the loss of life as Jack Crawford had tried to get his message across.

Sat on the floor with his back pressed against the hallway wall, the fear that had gripped Will had been all-consuming, not helped by the fact that the ringing in his ears meant that he was reduced to trying to lip read. He'd managed to make out 'Budge' as Jack had stood half-bent over him whilst the EMTs began to thoroughly wrap his left hand, but the only other word he'd picked out from there was 'Lecter' and when coupled with the other man's demeanour his blood had run cold, the hand gestures designed to placate and reassure doing the exact opposite. With the realisation that the psychopath had gone after Hannibal, a fresh surge of adrenaline had shot through his battered system and he'd found himself attempting to push to his feet but thwarted by the heavy weight of Crawford's hand pushing down on his shoulder, the other man's stern face in his line of vision and intent clear even if Will couldn't follow the exaggerated movements of his mouth. He'd seen his superior deliver enough bad news to people to know that Hannibal was at least alive, but beyond that his imagination had begun to run riot, the sudden twitches of his fingers making the paramedics' job twice as hard and causing pain to lance up his arm. The sensation had not been unwelcome, grounding him against full-blown panic at least.

By the time the EMTs had begun applying the outer bandage the odd word had started to filter through, but not enough. _Office, stab wound, minor, _followed by _you, stitches, hand. _Even if he couldn't hear properly, he could at least make himself understood, restlessly tolerating the medical assistance whilst telling Jack in a loud voice that he didn't need, didn't _want_ to go to the hospital and that if the other man wouldn't drive him across Baltimore to Hannibal's office _right now_ he would damn well _walk_. Not for the first time, Will had picked up on a faint thread of suspicion emanating from Crawford regarding his relationship with the other man, a slight narrowing of the eyes apparent as the younger man had almost ranted at him but the truth was that in that moment he simply hadn't cared.

Hannibal was hurt.

Whatever Jack had seen as he had looked at Will, it was enough for him to acquiesce to his demands.

_Will silently cursed at the lunch time traffic littering the roads as Jack steadily weaved his way through lines of cars. The fact that he wasn't using his lights should have been reassuring, but it simply wasn't reassuring enough despite the fact that with the short passage of time his hearing in his non-ruptured ear was returning in increments and he now at least had more details._

_Pulling up to yet another red stoplight, Will grit his teeth and tensed his fists against his knees, momentarily distracted from visions of what he might find when they got to their destination by the stabbing and pulling the action caused in his injured hand. Hannibal had been attacked, stabbed no less, although he'd been assured that the wound wasn't serious, that the other man was alert, talking and mostly mobile although there had been a 'significant altercation' according to the brief report Beverly Katz had phoned through. There were two casualties including Tobias Budge, and Will couldn't help the guilt that coloured his thoughts as he briefly considered yet more loss of life, another innocent to add to his tally. That feeling, however, paled in comparison to the guilt he felt when he considered the position Hannibal had found himself in due to his issues, his inability to function normally, and he found the only way to deal with that was simply not to, at least for the time being. The fear that Hannibal would hold him as responsible as he himself did struck as Jack finally rolled the black SUV to a stop outside the psychiatrist's office, neatly parking between the Fire Department bus and one of two patrol cars._

_"__Will?" Jack queried when the other man made no move to get out. Will focused on his breathing for just a moment, eyes fixed on the dash as he tried to control his almost overwhelming emotions, suddenly but only fleetingly torn between the urge to get to Hannibal as fast as humanly possible or run away as far and as fast as he could. "You ok?"_

_"__I'm good," Will finally offered with a dip of his head, before reaching for the door handle._

The muted joy Will had experienced as he'd slowly entered Hannibal's office and had seen the other man sat at his desk was further tempered by the bodies on the floor, but even more so by the blood and despondency marring his normally impeccable, often impassive features. There had been a millisecond of surprise that had chased across the older man's face as his dark gaze had slid past Jack to land on Will, but it was the sheer relief in the set of his expression that had left him very nearly reeling with its intensity as he'd forced himself to walk, rather than run, towards Hannibal. His fingers had itched, near _burned_ with the urge to physically reach out to the other man as the world in Will's mind had narrowed to encompass nothing but the two of them. But he hadn't, he'd kept his hands to himself and settled for meeting his gaze instead, letting that act alone say everything he couldn't given the circumstances.

Will had always had a problem with eye contact, something that had uniformly been attributed to his Asperger-like tendencies since he'd had his first clinical observation in first grade. He didn't disagree with that assessment, but he knew that for him at least it also ran deeper than that. Theories had been bandied about for years as to why some people on the autistic spectrum had difficulty with meeting someone's gaze; they found people's faces, even those they knew, threatening; their field of peripheral vision was stronger than their central one and they focused accordingly; it was simply too intense an experience to look into someone's eyes. For Will, part of the issue was that it magnified his empathic response, it made it far too easy to slip into the other person's mind. Hannibal had been the first person he had encountered in his thirty-two years with whom the notion of eye contact was not something that completely filled him with dread because he was _quiet_. Staring into his maroon gaze, he wasn't assaulted by feelings and thoughts that weren't his own, wasn't overwhelmed by hidden motive and meaning. He saw exactly what Hannibal wanted - allowed - him to see, and whilst on several levels that should have been worrying, in reality it was simply a relief. When Will felt able, when he chose to meet his gaze, it added to the experience rather than detracted from it and it had certainly done that, not least as Hannibal had moved over and inside him and lead them both satisfyingly over the edge on numerous occasions in recent weeks.

That first morning Will had awoken in Hannibal's bed, wrapped in silk and the lingering scent of the other man's cologne, he had been aware of two things: firstly, that he'd had several hours of uninterrupted sleep for the first time he could remember in months and, secondly, he ached in places that he hadn't experienced in several years. With gradually returning awareness as he had stretched and catalogued those aches, one in particular, Will had recalled some of the events of the previous night and the only thing that had prevented him from bolting out of bed and running from the house never to look back, had been the memory of the hunger and desire he'd seen in Hannibal's gaze every time he'd braved meeting it.

No one had ever looked at Will Graham the way Hannibal had that first night. Or the way he continued to look at him when they were alone. The fact that Hannibal had apparently wanted him, at least to some degree, rather than slept with him purely out of pity or some form of misplaced gesture of friendship, had given Will the strength to tamp down on the panic and reign in his urge to run. It had not, however, assuaged his fears.

_Will let the spray from Hannibal's impressive shower soak into his skin as he waited for his morning painkillers to kick in and dull the almost ever-present ache in his head. They'd been thoughtfully left on the mahogany bedside cabinet along with a tall glass of water, and a thick, fluffy towel carefully placed at the end of the bed; the invitation, or perhaps instruction, had been clear and once the initial panic had abated to a manageable level, Will used it as something to quiet the thoughts running rampant, turning the heat as high as he could bear and simply standing under the steady torrent of water. Like everything else associated with Hannibal, the shower was obviously an indulgence and Will allowed himself to at least briefly partake before uncertainly reaching for the expensive bottle of shower gel sat on the glass shelf. There was something extremely intimate attached to the idea of using Hannibal's soap and shampoo, however given what had already transpired between them and the alternative option of carrying an underlying scent of eau de sweat for the rest of the day, it didn't take Will long to squeeze a small amount of the opaque, pale green gel into his hand and begin to thoroughly wash himself._

_Whilst he'd achieved at least a solid four hours sleep, he had still awoken lightly covered in sweat and his hair had been plastered to his skull. He only hoped that Hannibal had not had to endure a night of enforced dampness himself as thoughts of how he had fallen asleep entered his mind, the memory of almost desperately pressing himself against the length of the other man as he'd been held colouring his cheeks with shame but finding himself surprisingly calm within the memory. Almost unnervingly so. Current issues excluded, Will was not a needy man, but feeling Hannibal pull him close had roused the fierce desire for human contact he had supressed ever since he had realised that he wasn't destined to have normal, healthy relationships, whether that was familial, platonic or romantic. In romantic terms, he strongly believed that he wasn't destined to have a relationship at all if he was being brutally honest. Normally he spent his time fiercely pushing people away or at the very least keeping them at arm's length, shying from close relationships because he'd learnt from a young age that people generally fled when they realised just how different he was. To be abandoned required expectation, so when his date with Jennifer Matthews in the eleventh grade had resulted in nothing but pain and humiliation and heartache and only compounded his other experiences in life, Will had decided that he would never expect anything from anyone again and he had withdrawn even further. From time to time he had fought his instincts, tried to trust, even managing to sustain the odd relationship for short periods, at least until the effort of hiding who he truly was became too much, but the end results had always been the same; more pain, more fear, more loneliness._

_But, Hannibal…_

_Hannibal understood him, and what he couldn't understand he at least accepted. And that thought terrified Will as he carefully washed away the last evidence of what had transpired, the thought that he'd potentially thrown that understanding away in a fit of blind, uninhibited terror. His attraction to the older man hadn't crept up on him, at least not from a physical point of view – that had been present from the breakfast they had shared in Minnesota, Will's comment about not finding Hannibal that interesting made to cover his discomfort at being analysed but also the fact that he was sat in his underwear with a man who ticked all of Will's boxes when it came to physical attraction. Strong features, square jaw, broad shoulders, forearms that indicated he was muscular without being muscly. The emotional attraction had come with conversations and shared meals and the unwavering, non-judgmental support the psychiatrist had offered. Will had reasoned that perhaps it was erroneous, that he was latching on to what Hannibal exuded because he was so desperately alone even when surrounded by people, but when the weeks had gone by and Will had discovered that wasn't the case, he'd done his best to bury it out of fear and for the sake of his own self-preservation._

_Stall filling with hints of cedar and pine, Will continued to absently run his soaped hands over his body, trying very hard not to recall the sensation of other hands on him and the pleasure he'd found in the touches. Washing himself more intimately, the tenderness he encountered made it near impossible not to lose himself in the memory of fingers breaching his body and the desire that had burned white hot as Hannibal had joined them together. Abandoning his attempts at cleansing himself, Will stretched his arms out and braced against the slick shower tiles, taking several unsteady breaths as the memory threatened to overwhelm him, and not in a good way. The fact that it was a nightmare that had brought his attraction to the fore was not really a surprise and he mentally berated himself for ending up in the position he had. What happened next was in Hannibal's hands, but Will knew how it was going to go despite the desire he'd witnessed, knew that even if the older man continued to be his friend rather than cutting him off completely, their relationship would never be the same. In Will's mind it was clear - there was nothing Hannibal could possibly see in him, no possible, conceivable payback to warrant the effort dealing with his behaviours and neuroses required beyond their already established relationship. Fighting down another surge of panic, Will knew with unerring clarity just where he had gone wrong and it was painfully simple: he had gotten too close..._

"I was worried you were dead,"

Will had nothing in his arsenal to deflect that statement or the carefully concealed emotions; he had worried the same as he'd struggled with Budge, luck rather than judgement coming to his rescue. He didn't have, had never really had, a death-wish beyond the vague desire at his lowest for a way out, but it was the first time he could ever recall having a truly compelling reason to embrace life either. Truth be told, he wasn't sure if he _could_ embrace it, not with the way his mind seemed hell-bent on malfunctioning, but the man before him had given him a reason to at least try and although an uncharacteristically romantic notion, Will had wondered if it were possible that had swung things in his favour with whatever forces controlled the cosmos.

Thankfully, Jack's interjection had at least saved Will from trying to find an appropriate way to respond that both acknowledged the meaning in Hannibal's words yet didn't immediately reveal to those carefully working around them that they were…_involved_, even if he would have quite happily strangled the man for the tone his questioning had taken. Will had played the part the senior agent would have expected of him, asked questions, but he hadn't needed to 'look' to see the truth of what had unfolded. He hadn't wanted to look, hadn't wanted to live through the moments in which his lover had so obviously fought for his life. He hadn't wanted to internalise another life lost to his own hand, particularly not one who was innocent as Franklyn had been, though his face rotated ghoulishly to the side would colour his dreams for many nights to come, second only to visions of Hannibal's lifeless form crumpled beside him. It could have been only a minute or it could have been an hour before Jack was done, Will couldn't be sure as time resumed its recent tendency to slip through his fingers like individual grains of sand, but then they were left alone, emotions surging to the fore once more.

"It looks like I've dragged you into my world,"

Unplanned, the words had come almost unbidden, guilt an ill-tempered dog snapping at his ankles as he'd settled against the edge of Lecter's desk and unconsciously catalogued the physical wounds he could see littering the other man's being, each one a wound to his own psyche. To his heart. The mental abrasions had seeped in of their own accord as Hannibal had trained tired eyes on Will, defences literally struck low enabling Will to inadvertently absorb some of the layers that were normally so tightly hidden from him. Pain. Relief. Anger. Affection. It was the anger that had lingered, assuming wrongly that it was aimed at him, at least until Hannibal had replied.

"I got here on my own. But I appreciate the company,"

Whilst he could kindly be described as socially inept at the best of times, Will had reasoned he would have had to be both deaf and blind to miss the true import of his words. His heart had felt a fraction lighter, a fraction warmer, a cautious hand extended to the dog that had at least temporarily stopped snapping but was still growling in a threatening manner at his feet. Concern had furrowed his brow, once more vying for supremacy and this time coming out on top.

_"__They said you were stabbed?"_

_As if he'd forgotten about the wound, Hannibal glanced down at where his hands still lightly gripped his leg._

_"Perhaps an exaggerated term. It's a flesh wound, nothing more," he looked up as he spoke, saw Will's disbelieving expression given the way he had yet to relinquish his hold on the wounded appendage, and he acquiesced softly. "Although, whilst superficial, I will admit it's somewhat painful,"_

_ Will nodded, teeth worrying at his bottom lip of their own accord. Words, sentiments, tried to force their way up his throat but were caught just short of his tongue, partly due to appropriateness given the situation but partly due to his own insecurities. If Hannibal noticed the way he went to speak but caught himself, he said nothing. He did, however, prevent Will from any further introspection or aborted declarations, by pinning him with a raw, emotional gaze that Will never wanted to see again._

_ "Join me for dinner?" _


	2. Chapter 2

Jack Crawford's insistence that neither of them were in a fit state to drive had not been a surprise. Neither had the repeat appearance of suspicion been when it was announced that he was taking Hannibal home, it seemingly only intensifying when Will, a man renowned for his general dislike of touch, had extended his good hand to the older man, wrapping it firmly around his elbow and helping to ease him to his feet. When his bandaged hand had lightly lingered a fraction too long - by anyone's standards – on Hannibal's side as he'd steadied him once he was upright, Will was certain he had felt Jack's gaze burning holes into the back of his head. It was a near given that at some point suspicion would change to certainty, but the timescale for that change was as yet unclear and it was not a conversation that Will wanted to have let alone looked forward to. That reticence stemmed from several directions, but not least because he had yet to fully establish with Hannibal what they had become to each other, and that was in no small part due to being afraid of what the psychiatrist's answer to that question might be. Will knew what he wanted it to be, and there had been no indication from Hannibal that his feelings were running in anything other than parallel, but short of blurting out something completely inane like '_are we going steady?'_ over dinner, Will was unsure as to how best to raise the subject. It meant more to Hannibal than simply sleeping together, that much was obvious, but whether the older man shared the depth of feeling that threatened to completely consume Will he wasn't sure. And he wanted to be sure, needed to be sure. It was a conversation, like so many others, for which he simply didn't have the prerequisite social adroitness. It had never bothered him previously, but there had been occasions recently where he wished he had worked a little more at his own social inclusivity growing up, tried harder to blunt the sharp edges and biting sarcasm that now came habitually.

The journey to Hannibal's home had been made in complete silence, and whilst Will understood that the back of a squad car was not the best place to hold any sort of conversation that either of them needed to have, it didn't change that he wanted to talk to the older man if only to stop the unending cycle of thoughts trapped in his head. Budge, Franklyn, Crawford, his own mounting instability. Guilt, so much guilt. That said, the ride had been made infinitely more bearable when Hannibal's hand had purposefully come to rest beside where Will's was pressed into the back seat, bracing himself upright. Sat with closed eyes as he actively tried to combat the combination of pounding headache, vague vertigo and still present tinnitus brought on by his newly perforated ear drum, the side of their palms touched in an overt but still discreet gesture of affection. He hadn't opened his eyes, but sensing Hannibal's gaze alight on him briefly he had tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement and gratitude.

Feeling the car roll to a stop, Will finally prised his eyes open and turned his head to look out of the opposite passenger window, noting with a sense of relief that their journey was complete. So concerned with Hannibal's condition, there had been no nausea en route to his office but it had settled unpleasantly in the pit of his stomach five minutes into this ride, brought on by a combination of adrenaline, pain and stifling heat and not helped by the sedan's lower centre of gravity. Casting his gaze to Hannibal's profile as the officer got out of the car and went to let Will out, he noted that most of the other man's mask was back in place, at least for now, just a slight tenseness in his jaw and fatigue around his eyes betraying the day's events as he withdrew his hand and set about buttoning his suit jacket. Were it not for the blood and bruises, Will would have been hard pressed to tell that it had been anything other than a tiring day at the office. Granted, the younger man was more than familiar with Hannibal's veneer of calm and control, but had he not been privy to the subtle tells otherwise, the extent to which he could regulate his expression would have bordered on being frightening.

Having assured the officer that there was nothing else they required, Will hovered at Hannibal's side as the squad car departed, unsure for a moment quite what was needed of him or what action would be welcomed, at least until the older man glanced at the steps leading up to his front door. Without a second thought, Will slipped his right arm around Hannibal's trim waist and neatly ducked underneath the psychiatrist's left arm when it automatically came up to rest over his shoulders. If the way Hannibal steadfastly avoided putting any more weight on his leg than was absolutely necessary to stay upright was anything to go by, 'somewhat painful' was obviously some sort of Lithuanian code for excruciating agony. Progress up the steps was relatively slow but perfectly steady, the pair acutely aware that if one of them went down it would be a painful experience for both of them given their current, respective conditions. The fact that Will had to go fishing in Hannibal's pants pocket for his house keys once they reached the top would have been highly amusing and no doubt brought a smile to both their faces under different circumstances. Perhaps more of a smirk on Hannibal's face, Will amended as they finally, gratefully, stepped over the threshold.

Securely closing the front door behind them, Will's breath caught in his throat as he turned and sure hands swiftly cupped his face, Hannibal's body crowding him backwards. Demanding lips pressed against his and the younger man readily welcomed them, parting his own slightly to allow Hannibal to lick his way into his mouth and taste him. The kiss was gentle, yet there was no denying the desperate emotions that coloured it, the older man's thumbs lightly stroking his cheeks as he pressed Will up against the door in search of as much contact as he could get.

_I was worried you were dead_.

The words rang in Will's mind as the kiss continued, his own actions mirroring Hannibal's palpable relief as he slid a hand up the other man's chest and took the fabric of his vest and shirt firmly in his fist to pull him as close as possible, taking his weight, letting it solidly pin him against the wood at his back. There was no lust, no physical need attached to the caress of Hannibal's tongue in his mouth or the hand migrating into his hair, but the embrace was perhaps more intense than any other they had shared as Will allowed the other man to vent the fear and desperation he had felt at the thought of losing him. It touched Will in ways that warmed him to the core despite the circumstances, the fact that the thought of his death had inspired such a deep emotional response in such a normally impassive man. _Outwardly impassive man_, Will corrected himself, under no illusions that just because Hannibal didn't wear his heart on his sleeve it did not mean that he felt less than anyone else.

Still lightly sliding his tongue against Hannibal's, Will covered the hand resting against his cheek with his own injured one and gave it a gentle squeeze. The action seemed to bring Hannibal back to himself, the older man's eyes opening from where they had been tightly shut. Will met his gaze, held it, communicating his understanding as best he could as he watched the shutters come up within maroon eyes and the emotions were locked away with practiced ease, kiss waning in the process. Hannibal pulled back just enough to speak, his breath warmly ghosting across Will's lips.

"Budge informed me that he had killed two men before coming to my office. I assumed you were one of them,"

Licking his lips and tasting blood, the profiler fleetingly glanced to the older man's mouth and noted that the kiss had reopened the split in his bottom lip.

"I'm alive," Will murmured softly, reaching up to gently swipe his thumb over the beads of red at the corner of Hannibal's mouth. The slightest hint of amusement crinkled the corners of Lecter's eyes at his response.

"So I see," he replied quietly, the micro-expression of amusement morphing into one of physical discomfort and he found himself forced to lean away from Will. "A fact for which I'm extremely grateful."

Will nodded his agreement, not trusting his voice not to break under the weight of the other man's sincerity. Given that he had almost gotten Hannibal killed, the emotions that sincerity evoked were completely dichotomous. Guilt at the consequences of his actions and contentment that Hannibal was glad that he had survived were warring factions that he currently had no idea how to appease without losing himself in the process, one way or another.

"You look like hell. I take it asking a former surgeon if he has a first aid kit is pretty redundant?"

The words were not the ones he wanted to say, but he hoped the softness of his tone compensated for it, this time the tips of his fingers alighting ever so gently on the wound at the other man's mouth. Hannibal's tongue delicately probed at the spot in response, finding the blood still sluggishly welling there.

"Despite my prowess in the kitchen, accidents do occasionally still happen," Hannibal confirmed a touch ruefully, taking a step back but tone matching Will's in a way that indicated to the younger man that he thankfully understood. "There are supplies in the downstairs bathroom,"

Will slipped his arm around Hannibal's waist again, encouraging him to turn as he did so and Hannibal obliged, once more resting his arm over the other man's shoulders but this time because he could more than because he needed to as they headed towards the back of the house and the bathroom.

Pushing open the door and reaching for the light, Will released Hannibal but watched carefully as he moved towards a padded, black wicker chair positioned near the roll-top tub, stiffly removing his jacket as he went before lowering himself in to it with a sigh. There wasn't much in the way of storage and it didn't take a genius to work out that the supplies Hannibal spoke of would have to be kept in the unit underneath the pristine sink. Surprisingly, Will had never used this particular room having instead been directed to the upstairs master bathroom in the early days of their friendship, and now having the run of Hannibal's en-suite. With a monochromatic theme, it was decorated in the same tastefully striking manner as the rest of the house, careful lighting softening the glare that would be otherwise associated with so many white accents and highlights - something for which Will was grateful for as crouching to inspect the contents of the cupboard further aggravated his head. When nothing else appeared to fit the bill, he pulled out a nondescript, compartmentalised black bag.

"What sort of accidents do you occasionally have?" Will queried with raised eyebrows as he took stock of the assorted items his search revealed. He had thought his own first aid provisions to be reasonably extensive, a by-product of his hobbies, but they were nothing when compared to the contents of the bag: dressings; bandages; gauzes; sports strapping; surgical tapes of differing widths and materials; antiseptics in a variety of topical preparations; latex gloves; sterile suture kits. And a number of other things that Will didn't immediately recognise. There were no drugs as such, but Hannibal was too fastidious to leave even over the counter medication in a bathroom that was used by any and all visitors to his home. Assuming, of course, that he ever took anything given how careful he was, by his own admission, about what he put into his body. Will dismissed that thought as quickly as it came; Hannibal might be careful, but he was a doctor and knew the value of appropriate pharmaceutical treatment better than most. There would be painkillers tonight.

"You'd be surprised to learn of the injuries one can sustain in pursuit of the culinary arts," Hannibal offered in response. Glancing towards where he was sat, Will noticed the humour touching his features.

"So it would seem," Will agreed, a faint smile upturning the corners of his own mouth as he carried the bag over and deposited it at Hannibal's feet, pulling out an already opened packet of gauze before leaning over the edge of the bathtub.

"On the odd occasion, I've even known dinner to bite back."

Turning from where he'd been busy with the taps, Will squeezed out the excess water from a square of gauze and folded it into a small triangle, before perching himself on the lip of the bath close enough to where Hannibal was sat that one of his legs was planted between the other man's knees.

"In that case, I'd consider changing your diet," Will mused absently, the smile still present as he reached out to gently tip Hannibal's chin, the older man pliant to his directions to angle his head just so.

Hannibal hummed in thought as Will began his ministrations by lightly dabbing at the cut across the bridge of his nose and the dried blood surrounding it. There was little point in using antiseptic given that the wounds, with the exception of the one on his lip, had already scabbed over, but Hannibal's eyes still fell closed with the mild discomfort his actions elicited.

"Sore?" Will asked, wincing in empathy as his talent processed and internalised the tiny indicators of pain. In his head he heard the impact of Hannibal's nose against Budge's forehead, felt a corresponding sharp spike of pain and an ache that blossomed under both eyes. Hannibal was going to have at least one, if not two, good shiners by the morning. The other man quietly grunted an affirmation, inhaling a little sharply through his mouth when Will used slightly more pressure. "Sorry,"

Satisfied that it was clean, Will moved to his forehead, using his injured hand to gently push Hannibal's bangs out of the way and, finding a small cut underneath, repeating the tender care he had given his nose. The movement unexpectedly caused his hand to throb, an ache spreading up his arm, and for a split second there was a decidedly unpleasant tearing sensation across the side of his palm. He caught the edge of his lip with his teeth to hold back a curse and hoped that Hannibal hadn't noticed.

The only sound in the small room was their breathing as Will ignored his own pain and carefully continued, turning the gauze in his hand to find a clean patch and pressing it to the corner of Hannibal's mouth. He was pleased when it came away without fresh blood. Feeling Hannibal's eyes on him, the phantom sensation of his own teeth piercing his lip as someone impacted with his mouth made him feel faintly nauseous. The older man's nostrils flared slightly.

"Your hand is bleeding," Hannibal stated, gaze narrowing as he picked up on the familiar metallic scent. "How many sutures do you have? You may have pulled one."

Will glanced at his hand, saw only the slightest trace of blood seeping through to the white material encasing it, frowned slightly.

"It's not that bad - " he began quietly, aiming for nonchalance and fooling neither of them as he delicately tended to the blood that had run down the other man's chin.

"William," Hannibal interrupted, tone equally as quiet but uncompromising as he reached out and his hand settled around Will's wrist just below where the dressing stopped, long fingers almost meeting around the circumference and holding it firmly. "Please tell me you've been to the Emergency Room,"

"I'll go once we're done here," Will offered, a promise, lifting his eyes to the older man's and finding hints of concern. "I needed to know you were ok,"

"Jack should have passed that information on and insisted on taking you to be treated,"

"He tried," Will offered, a wry, unintentional smile twisting his lips as his gaze skittered away and he returned his attention to wiping the last of the blood from his face. Hannibal's eyes narrowed further as he processed the other man's words and pulled Will's unoccupied hand towards himself, fingers moving to the edge of the dressing and beginning to carefully insinuate themselves underneath. Forced to stop his ministrations, the younger man sat back more firmly on the edge of the tub, winced slightly as the sticky material pulled at his skin when Hannibal continued to slowly remove it. "I, uh, might have been slightly difficult about it,"

"Then he should have tried harder," Hannibal's tone was low, an undercurrent of something almost dangerous making Will's skin prickle just slightly. It wasn't the first time he had picked up on the as yet unidentified emotion coming from the older man and he was no closer to placing it now than he had been on previous occasions, simply glad that it wasn't aimed at him.

Dressing removed, Hannibal quickly assessed the four unnatural, red grooves marring the side of Will's hand and wrist where the cello strings had bitten through flesh, lightly manipulating the edges of the wounds with his thumbs to gauge depth and severity. The younger man bit his lip again as the throbbing ache blossomed into sharper pain, made a noncommittal noise. Several thin rivulets of fresh blood snaked their way down the side of his hand and the older man's face darkened perceptibly.

The buzzing in Will's ears increased tenfold, the guilt at seeing Hannibal's anger inescapable as he watched the other man's still careful fingers and forced himself to breathe through the sudden rush of self-loathing and shame that threatened to prostrate him on the polished bathroom floor. His nose filled with the fetid yet chemical smell of Budge's basement for a second time, his vision began to shift and his breath came faster, a cold sweat forming on the back of his neck ; as his senses revolted and a full-blown flashback to the struggle in the killer's lair loomed large at the edges of his mind - one that came with the promise of his own particular brand of creative embellishment - the older man's voice somehow managed to drift to him through the noise in his head and a lightly calloused palm cupped his cheek.

"I'm not angry with you, Will," Hannibal stressed the 'you' as he spoke, sentiments honest and true.

The tightness gripping Will's chest lessened just slightly, closing his eyes and turning his face into the caress as he simply tried to breathe for a moment, the threatening internal chaos receding almost as swiftly as it had come. Hannibal's scent permeated his nose once more, chasing away the remains of the music shop, and the ringing in his ears decreased although not to what he would have described as safe levels: a threat or a promise Will wasn't sure, but experience suggested it would be the latter.

"Although," Hannibal continued softly after a moment, "I would prefer it if you would at least attempt to take better care of yourself. If not for your own sake, then for mine."

The tightness intensified again, but this time the cause was the feeling carried in Hannibal's voice, the carefully guarded emotions in the set of his mouth and dark eyes. Unable to reciprocate with words, he pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of the other man's wrist and nodded his understanding instead, well aware that Hannibal was not just alluding to his hand.

Prior to going out into the field, Will had re-established a fairly good grasp on tending to basic human needs, one that had started to slip during his time as a cop. He'd begun to eat regularly again, he willingly slept despite his dreams and generally paid attention to and acted on the signs his body gave him with regards to what it required. Since Jack Crawford had entered his life, what his body required had once again taken a back seat to the scenes that had been burnt into his brain with unforgiving clarity and the alien emotions invading his soul. The experience of killing Hobbs had been the catalyst for so much in his life, not least the resurgence of increased and intensified nightmares and an accompanying pervasive loss of appetite. Whilst breakfast had generally never been more than a couple of slices of toast or a bowl of cereal, more often than not it was a mug of black coffee that lined his stomach of a morning now, and left to his own devices, food had steadily dropped to the bottom of the list of priorities. Truth be told, Will rarely felt hungry anymore, too consumed, too sickened by the visions in his head. His associations. That wasn't to say he didn't eat, just that the inclination to do so was sorely lacking these days, something that Hannibal had rapidly picked up on if the way the other man now supplied him with food was anything to go by. Whenever Will left the other man's home it was always with lunch or dinner neatly stored in a Tupperware box in his bag, the meals perfectly cooked and beautifully seasoned. The inclination didn't improve with the action, but Will had gone hungry enough as a child that the thought of disposing of good food was simply unfathomable, coupled with the fact that Hannibal often went out of his way to prepare it for him and just for him. It would have been rude to do anything other than eat it as expected. As for sleep, well, Hannibal knew first-hand the issues the younger man contended with in pursuit of restful slumber but had carefully pointed out, as Will had restlessly lain in his arms several nights previously, that fighting it benefitted no one and 4 hours disrupted sleep was better than an hour caught simply because he could no longer force his eyes to remain open.

Since finding himself in Hannibal's bed, Will was trying to look after himself a little better, but it was hard, incredibly hard at times. Most days he felt like his brain was consumed by wildfire, like his mind was being incinerated from the inside out, and the nights were like wading through molten treacle, feelings that even Hannibal's company failed to eradicate. Sometimes the other man's presence eased them somewhat, but they never left completely and the headaches that plagued him had reached epic proportions of late. Combined with the nightmares and the sleepwalking and the _otherthings_, the ones that Will steadfastly refused to call hallucinations even within the safety of his own mind, he was beginning to consider that perhaps they were looking in the wrong direction, perhaps there was something physically wrong with him. He knew he could ask Hannibal for a referral and that the psychiatrist would willingly give it to him if he did so, however that would mean admitting something that he had outright avoided telling the older man for fear of…what? Ridicule? Recrimination?

Abandonment…

Blinking rapidly to clear his head, Will looked to his injured hand again and wriggled his fingers a little as a distraction, watching as blood welled within the deepest wound.

"H-how bad is it?"

Moment broken, Hannibal withdrew his hand from Will's cheek and stretched a long arm down to the medical supplies at their feet before pulling out some of the gauze Will had used. The younger man watched with perverse fascination as Hannibal attentively cleaned his palm, the white fabric staining red.

"Two are quite superficial," Hannibal offered, as careful in his ministrations as Will had been with him. "The other two do not require internal sutures, however they will need some assistance to heal. I believe I have sufficient supplies to clean and close them properly,"

"I'm supposed to be looking after you," Will mused, hissing slightly as Hannibal dipped the gauze inside the deepest laceration. The older man sought out his elusive gaze for a split second before dropping his eyes back to his task.

"You are," Hannibal informed him quietly, "In more ways than one,"

The other man disposed of the gauze and reached for a light dressing to stem the flow of blood and possible infection in the short term, the even quieter confession thickening the air. A moment later, with Will's hand safely dressed again, the younger man reached for the buttons of Hannibal's vest and carefully began to undress him. Hannibal frowned.

"Humour me," Will stated, sensing Hannibal's confusion as he eased the fabric from his shoulders and down his arms before reaching for the small fastenings of his shirt. "I need to know,"

_I need to know what I've done to you._


	3. Chapter 3

The pill bottle rattled with a welcome familiarity as Will shook out two Tylenol in to his palm, bringing them to his mouth and dry swallowing them with practiced ease. The aspirin he had been taking had ceased to even pretend at effectiveness and he figured that these were the last route open to him before he had to seriously consider getting an actual prescription for something stronger. It wasn't an option that appealed to him.

"I do not believe paracetamol will be much use for this," Hannibal stated, brows drawn slightly as he finished whatever he was doing at his desk. "Thankfully, I have a small amount of Lidocaine for occasions such as these,"

"Headache," Will offered by way of explanation, resisting the strong urge to press the heels of his hands against his eyes as he simultaneously hoped Hannibal would forgive the curt nature of his answer and gave thanks for the fact that the room was lit by nothing but two soft lamps. Whilst they were omnipresent, this one had intensified as he had silently appraised the litany of bruises revealed in the bathroom as he had carefully stripped the other man of his three-piece armour until he was sat in nothing but black, silken boxers. Despite Hannibal's assertion that it was unnecessary, Will had gently applied salve to the worst of the dozen purpling marks across his torso before tending to the bloody wound just above his knee, his mind a haze of half-formed re-creations and imaginings as his hands mapped the damage inflicted. Currently sat at his desk, the darkening mark across Hannibal's collarbone clearly visible beneath the collar of his silk robe was a constant reminder to Will of his failings.

The older man slowly rose, picking up a stainless steel tray from his ink blotter and negotiating his limp to carefully carry it towards where Will was perched on the dark red chaise-longue that adorned the far wall of his private office. Depositing it on the small table he had already moved into position at its head, Hannibal urged Will to turn and lie back with a guiding hand on his shoulder, pressing him down into unsurprising softness before sitting on the edge of the chaise and drawing the table even nearer. Will eyed the needles within the tray with just a touch of trepidation.

"Try not to look so worried, Will,"

Will let his gaze drift to Hannibal, watched the older man assess his tools. He licked his lips.

"I trust you,"

There were several measures of quiet certainty to the statement, enough to prompt Lecter to pause infinitesimally in his preparations given that certainty was something they both knew Will was desperately lacking in all other areas of his life. What surprised Will was how comfortable that certainty felt despite its foreign nature, the sudden realisation that someone had actually managed to earn his complete, unwavering trust for the first time in his entire life; it was as frightening as it was liberating and Graham resolved not to consider it too closely just yet. The clear warmth and affection and _pride_ that crossed Hannibal's features as he resumed organising the supplies needed to stitch Will back together soothed the younger man enough for him to settle more fully into the cushions at his back.

Placing a square sheet of blue surgical paper against the back of the chaise beside Will's shoulder, with a deft touch Hannibal gently bent and manoeuvred the younger man's arm until his hand was resting upon it. Apparently satisfied with the positioning, he then adjusted the antique desk lamp he'd moved to the table so that the light would squarely illuminate the damaged flesh he was to work on, and for the second time set about removing the dressing from Will's hand. The profiler closed his eyes as Hannibal made his final preparations, the sound of latex gloves being donned and the quiet clink of items on the tray being utilised loud in the otherwise quiet room. Sure fingers moved over his wounds and then stretched the skin taut, and he sensed the other man lean in towards him.

"You'll feel a sharp scratch," Hannibal informed him, tone one of clinical detachment.

Will exhaled as he felt the pain of the hypodermic entering his palm but otherwise remained silent and still as he waited for the discomfort of Hannibal's ministrations to pass and numbness to take over. The odd sensation of local anaesthetic taking effect slowly spread through his hand and wrist in increments until he could feel nothing as the doctor worked, a quiet rustling eventually prefacing the even stranger sensation of tugging and pulling that told him Hannibal had begun to suture. He'd had wounds requiring stitches before, but he'd never found the physical feelings of someone manipulating his flesh easy to tolerate without descending in to remembered scenes of death and carnage, imagining himself as whichever victim from his myriad cases had sported a similar injury to the one being treated on him. He managed for almost a full two minutes before, as if on cue, Will swallowed against a rising tide of nausea, turning his head towards the wall and running his free hand over his face. There was a pause in the sensations in response, one of only slight hesitation, and then Hannibal's voice, soft and low, reached his ears.

_"__Depuis qu'Amour cruel empoisonna premièrement de son feu ma poitrine, toujours brûlai de sa fureur divine, qui un seul jour mon coeur n'abandonna."_

Eyes still closed, Will turned his head back towards the older man and forced himself to listen carefully to the lilting inflection of the words. He had studied French in school, could still speak some, but this was well beyond his comprehension, the only thing clearly translated being a breathtakingly earnest reverence as Hannibal continued to speak, although there was a vague familiarity nagging in his chest.

_"Quelque travail, dont assez me donna, quelque menace et prochaine ruine, quelque penser de mort qui tout termine, de rien mon coeur ardent ne s'étonna."_

The tugging in his hand faded into insignificance as Hannibal slowly continued his recital, words and tone cocooning Will in warmth even if the meaning was lost on him. Whatever the words translated to, it was Hannibal's voice itself that played the biggest part in easing his discomfort, and not for the first time. Will freely admitted that alongside the older man's handsome features and veiled strength, his voice was perhaps one of his most attractive characteristics, with the power to both soothe and arouse as the situation required. The quiet rumble of a lazy 'good morning' in his ear was one of the most seductive things Will had ever heard, accent thick and enticing, or the low, rough quality it took on in the heat of passion as Hannibal thrust into him, told him to come for him. When his world tilted on its axis, as it was wont to do, and fear and panic - or another person entirely - threatened to consume him, Hannibal's voice was a balm to his soul, a beacon, a lifeline. Sometimes it took a while, but Will could always use it to bring himself back, ground himself as much as possible in the present. In himself.

_"__Tant plus qu'Amour nous vient fort assaillir, plus il nous fait nos forces recueillir, et toujours frais en ses combats fait être; mais ce n'est pas qu'en rien nous favorise, cil qui des Dieux et des hommes méprise, mais pour plus fort contre les forts paraître."_

"Louise Labe," Will murmured when Hannibal finally went quiet, the name materialising out of nowhere from a long lost memory of a lesson on classical French literature from his senior year. Opening his eyes, he was treated to one of Hannibal's broader smiles, the doctor cutting the surplus thread from the second, now neatly closed, laceration.

"Yes," Hannibal confirmed, using gauze to gently clean away the pin pricks of blood punctuating the two rows of perfect sutures.

"She wrote sonnets," Will recalled, "But I don't know the translation,"

"It was her fourth sonnet, it tells of an uncontrollable desire that even the thought of death could not dampen," The older man explained as he expertly wrapped Will's hand. "It seemed…appropriate,"

Task finally complete, Hannibal pulled off his gloves before reaching out to cup the younger man's cheek, leaning in with a quiet _all done _and bestowing a soft, lingering kiss on his lips. He was just moving to pull away again when Will surged forward to follow his retreat and slid his good hand into Hannibal's hair, drawing him back down to kiss him more soundly, more thoroughly. It was when the older man moved to brace his hands on either side of Will's head to lean into the embrace that he pulled up short, the skin around his eyes tightening in pain. Will's face shifted remorsefully.

"Sorry, I didn't - " he started, only to trail off. Hannibal shook his head, ran his thumb over the swell of Will's bottom lip as he carefully straightened again and thoughtfully considered him.

"Much though food is far from my mind this evening, I believe we should eat and we would both benefit from some rest. It's been a trying day,"

Food was the _last_ thing on Will's mind, but he acknowledged the wisdom of the other man's words and an idea formed in response, a tentative first step towards penance.

"Do you trust me, Hannibal?"

Hannibal tilted his head slightly, curiosity clear as he wondered where Will's train of thought had taken him.

"Completely," he admitted without hesitation, without even a hint of doubt.

Will didn't smile, the answer a blow to the gut given the day's events, but it wouldn't deter him from his chosen course of action.

"Then, I'm cooking,"


	4. Chapter 4

Will perused the contents of the stainless steel refrigerator with a vague sense of being overwhelmed. Each shelf held more than the entire contents of his own appliance and his kitchen cupboards combined, although that was an unsurprising fact, Will acknowledging that the same could probably be said for a large proportion of the population given his poor eating habits.

Growing up, there had rarely been enough food. Going to bed hungry had not been a punishment but the norm, early memories of crying himself to sleep with a soul-deep hunger gnawing at his gut flashing through his mind as he stood with hands on hips in front of the open fridge door and considered what to make. In contrast, the odd occasions that his father had come home with extra in his pay-packet were among some of Will's favourite memories because he would stand on a chair beside Bill Graham and learn the rudimentary elements of cooking simple but hearty food from the cheapest cuts of meat and fish his father could pick up from the local market. The summers were understandably better than the winter months, when fish were more plentiful and weekends spent down by the rivers and docks of the various places they'd lived yielded enough of a catch to sustain them for a few days. But it never seemed to be enough.

Will was more than aware of his father's many, many flaws, but despite the consistent lack of ingredients, Bill had been a pretty good cook, and alongside teaching him to fish and how to dismantle, fix and reassemble almost anything mechanical in nature, he'd passed his culinary knowledge on to his son. Those three skills aside, everything else William Graham Jr knew about life he'd taught himself or learnt the hard way. In keeping with that, Will had expanded his repertoire somewhat in college, adding pasta dishes to the steadily improved stews and soups of his childhood and learning to imbue fresh fish and meat with fragrance and new flavours - whilst he might rarely cook anymore, it wasn't due to lack of ability, a notion that would probably have surprised everyone who knew him: the consternation that had crossed Hannibal's face at Will's assertion that he would cook for them was a prime example, although Will knew that the older man's concern was also firmly rooted in territorial boundaries. The thought of letting _anyone_ into his kitchen without him being at the helm was one that he found almost impossible to reconcile. The kitchen was his refuge, his sanctum, and Will had been able to hear the polite but immovable refusal framed on the tip of Hannibal's tongue before it even left his mouth. Only, it never came. Eventually raising his gaze to the older man's eyes when the silence had become too much, he'd witnessed an almost calculating flash of…_something_, before Hannibal had gingerly eased himself to standing and extended a hand to Will.

_"__Please do not make a mess,"_

Will ran a hand over the packages of carefully wrapped meat occupying the top shelf, uncertain as to what they all were but recognising the lightly spiced sausage Hannibal often fed him for breakfast, loin that he assumed had to be pork from the colour and texture, assorted offal. His fingers lingered over the last for a moment before moving on, deciding it to be too rich, too much given the day's events. Something light was needed, something easily digested – he knew only too well that he certainly wasn't up to the rustic liver dish that had been pulled from a corner of his memory. Spying more recognisable meat to the rear, Will leant in and removed the smallest parcel of pre-boned chicken, then focussed his attention on the array of possible accompaniments further down. A salad, maybe. Pan-grilled chicken with garlic and thyme, mixed leaves, maybe some of the pine nuts he knew Hannibal kept in the pantry and a light, citrusy dressing.

Pulling out what he needed and carrying it between his left arm and his body, Will turned and deposited the items on to the work surface beside Hannibal's hob, then returned to close the refrigerator. A quick detour to the pantry and he'd be all set, nervousness beginning to creep in as he considered what he had embarked upon with his offer. Whilst he could cook, he wasn't a gourmet chef and he held no misconceptions that his food would be of the same quality as Hannibal's, the other man exacting in both standards and palate. What if Hannibal didn't like it? Now stood near the doorway, his stomach churned slightly with the thought.

_From where he came to rest just inside the doorway, Will had a clear line of sight through the house to the front door. If he had been going to use it however, he would have done so when he'd reached the bottom of the staircase from the first floor, not walked past it and through the house to the kitchen. Despite the nerves that rolled painfully through his abdomen, that threatened to cause his heart to burst out of his chest, he was not a coward and he owed it to Hannibal to let the other man say his piece, confirm verbally what Will already knew._

_The man in question had his back to him, quiet strains of something by Bach playing over speakers cleverly built in to the room as he busied himself in front of two white plates. With his shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbow and white apron protecting navy-blue, pinstripe pants, he painted a painful portrait of domesticity as Will watched the delicate play of muscles in his shoulders and back. Quickly re-evaluating his thoughts around cowardice with a swallow and another glance to the front door, Hannibal turned with plates in hand and his fate was effectively sealed. He supposed it was better to get it over with, at least he would be able to say that there had been closure in their relationship._

_Regaining the little poise he'd lost at finding Will stood in the doorway, Hannibal offered him a small smile, eyes trying and failing to catch Will's own as they firmly affixed at the open collar of his shirt._

_"__Good Morning,"_

_Will rubbed at his stubble for wont of something to do with his hands, clearing his throat in a bid to rid himself of the foreign body that seemed to have lodged itself there. Words were a struggle and in the end all he managed was one. "Hi,"_

_As if immune to the apparent awkwardness of the moment, Hannibal gracefully deposited one of the plates he was carrying on the island between carefully laid out cutlery and condiments, before leaning slightly to deposit the other on the opposite side and turning back to Will. The younger man noted that the arrangement of food was identical; apparently the blow was to be softened over a shared breakfast then._

_"__Please," Hannibal gestured to a tall stool that had been placed in front of the nearest place-setting, waiting for Will to urge heavy feet into motion before speaking again. "I thought perhaps you might enjoy something traditionally more American for breakfast this morning,"_

_Stopping beside the stool, Will frowned when Hannibal pulled it away from the island to enable him to seat himself, waiting for him to settle before removing his hands and occupying his own space. Eyes downcast, the younger man appraised the golden-brown pancakes, a light dusting of icing sugar and a generous dollop of whipped, vanilla cream stark contrast to the dark red, syrupy fruits that adorned the crepes. It looked and smelt delicious but did nothing other than make his stomach roll. Feeling the older man's gaze on the top of his bowed head, Will picked up his cutlery._

_"I trust you eventually slept well?" Hannibal asked after Will had taken a reluctant bite and the silence had stretched between them. Unwilling to answer, Will replied with a quiet question of his own._

_"__Have you seen my glasses?"_

_Hannibal savoured his current mouthful of breakfast before replying, juicy berries bursting on his tongue as he chewed and flooding his taste buds with a tart edge underpinned by sweetness._

_"__My understanding is that they are symbolic, a way for you to place a barrier between yourself and others," he stated, conversationally, as he prepared another forkful of pancake and fruit. "Do you wish to place a barrier between us, Will?"_

_Will had learnt years ago that for many, anger was often a mask for other emotions, a defence against things that were too deep, too keenly felt for them to be acknowledged as they were. His own misplaced ire tended to come out as sarcasm, and the fear and loss and regret that currently suffused his pores did exactly that. At least in the first instance._

_"__Psychoanalysis over breakfast the morning after the night before, Dr. Lecter?" he all but spat, scorn dripping from his delivery. "I expected better. Why don't we just get this over with?"_

_"__Will – " Hannibal began, carefully placing his cutlery down on his plate._

_"I'll save you the effort. 'I'll always care for your well-being as your friend, but what happened between us was a mistake, Will'."_

_Hannibal wiped his mouth and rose, Will so lost in his own bitterness he failed to register the movement._

_"__Or maybe something more clichéd but less personal, like, 'it's not you, it's me' –"_

_Will stopped speaking as warm hands gripped his face and turned then tipped his head, intense, maroon eyes boring into his gaze as Hannibal's lips rapidly descended and moulded themselves to his own._

_Stunned into immobility, his silverware clattered to his plate, mouth dropping open slightly at the press of the other man's lips and forced into burning eye contact because he didn't dare blink. Hannibal encouraged reciprocation with a slow, gentle sweep of his tongue and a palm skimming over Will's cheek to thread into his wayward, shower-damp curls. The younger man's fingers flexed unconsciously, hands coming up of their own accord to hover between them before finally alighting on Hannibal's shirt-covered chest and allowing himself to melt into the contact. The older man's tongue was a berry sweet haven as it slowly mapped the contours of his mouth, Will still unable to break the visual connection between them and finding himself lost in the swirls of unnamed but warm emotions in jet-black pupils._

_When Hannibal was satisfied that his message had been received and at least partially understood he slowed the kiss and pulled back, contentedly licking the taste of Will and fruit from his lips._

_"__I would have thought by now you would know I would never express myself so tritely," Hannibal admonished, voice deep and breath still a little quick, thumbs brushing gently against Will's cheekbones. "Apart from which, I do not have a single regret about what happened last night. If anything, I believed it would be the other way around – there are those who would say I took advantage of you when you were vulnerable to fulfil my own desires," _

_Will huffed out a disbelieving breath, finally able to free himself from Lecter's penetrating gaze and choosing to inspect the dark floor tiles at his feet instead. He left his hands on Hannibal's chest however._

_"__Trust me, there was no advantage taken. I'm not so far gone that I couldn't have said no and if I remember rightly, I kissed you first."_

_"__As you emerged from what appeared to be a particularly traumatic nightmare…"_

_Will frowned at the older man playing devil's advocate._

_"__I knew where I was and who I was with, Hannibal." Will drew his gaze back up to emphasise his point. "I was fully aware of what I wanted. What I'd wanted for some time."_

_Hannibal smiled softly at the admission then leant back in and pressed his lips to Will's again, although more chastely this time._

_"__Forgive me. It's been some time since I've found myself in this situation and whilst it's most definitely a pleasant surprise, it's a surprise nonetheless. I hadn't anticipated that we might both want the same thing. It's left me feeling a little…off-kilter."_

_"__Welcome to my world," Despite the words, Will was smiling, a full smile that actually pulled at his facial muscles due to their lack of use over recent months._

_Hannibal smiled back._

Will was grateful for the table he was stood next to as he came to with a jolt, able to blindly but safely put down whatever he was carrying as he tried to gain some equilibrium. Blinking repeatedly he realised that he was in Hannibal's bedroom, the room bathed in the muted tones of dimmed wall lights.

"You made chicken soup,"

Will stared down at the tray he'd just deposited, taking note of the two bowls of meat and golden broth as if he was seeing them for the first time. Which, of course, he was. Blinking again, he turned to look at Hannibal now at his side and tried to dispel the concern spreading on the other man's features, jamming his hands into his pockets the best he could given the bandaging on his left to hide the fine tremor beginning to take hold. Time, he'd lost time.

"Apparently so," he agreed, tongue feeling thick in his mouth. "I doubt it'll be up to your standards, but it should be hot and filling at least,"

Will had no idea if it was even going to be edible, let alone hot, his last memory being shutting the refrigerator door and heading towards the pantry. For all he knew it could have been made with sugar and dishwater, and although the outside of the meat appeared a pleasing golden brown, there was no telling if it was cooked all the way through. There was silence for a moment before a warm hand cupped the back of his neck.

"Will,"

There were a number of questions hidden in the way Hannibal said his name and he felt the tremor in his hands intensify.

"I'm fine, Hannibal," Will stated, noting that the lie did not come easily.

The older man stepped in to his side, took the towel he had situated around his own neck and used it to gently wipe away the heavy sheen of sweat from Will's brow that the younger man had failed to notice. Hannibal's gaze was soft but knowing as he carefully tended to him.

"You lost time."


End file.
